Falls

  The rain grew heavier, but in the distance the sky was already clearing. It wouldn’t last long. All the same, Siobhan’s legs were soaked, her trousers sticking to her. Grant’s trainers were making squelching sounds. He had switched to auto-pilot, his eyes staring, nothing at all on his mind except reaching the summit, whatever it took.

  At they clambered up the last steep incline, the land levelled off. They’d reached the summit. The rain was easing. Twenty feet away stood a cairn. Siobhan knew that sometimes hill-walkers added a rock or stone each time they ended a climb. Maybe that was how this cairn had come into being.

  ‘What, no restaurant?’ Grant said, crouching down to get his breath back. The rain had stopped, a shaft of sunshine splitting the clouds and bathing the hills around in an eerie yellow glow. He was shivering, but the rain had been pouring off his cagoule and on to his sweat-shirt, soaking it. No use putting it on now. His denims had changed colour to a darker, dampened blue.

  ‘Hot tea, if you want it,’ Siobhan said. He nodded and she poured him a cup. He sipped at it, studying the cairn.

  ‘Are we scared what we’ll find?’ he said.

  ‘Maybe we won’t find anything.’

  He conceded as much with a nod. ‘Go look,’ he told her. So she screwed the top back on the flask and approached the cairn, walked round it. Just a pile of stones and pebbles. ‘There’s nothing here,’ she said. She got down on her haunches to take a closer look.

  ‘There must be.’ Grant rose to his feet, walked towards her. ‘There’s got to be.’

  ‘Well, whatever it is, it’s well hidden.’

  He touched a foot to the cairn, then gave a push, toppling it. Dropped to his knees, running his hands through the debris. His face was screwed up, teeth bared. Soon the pile of stones was completely flattened. Siobhan had lost interest in it, was looking around for other possibilities, seeing none. Grant thrust a hand into his cagoul pocket, pulling out the two plastic evidence bags he’d brought. She watched him stuff them under the largest rock, then begin building the cairn again. It didn’t get very high before it started to fall down.

  ‘Leave it, Grant,’ Siobhan said.

  ‘Useless piece of shit!’ he cried out. She couldn’t be sure who or what his words were aimed at.

  ‘Grant,’ she said quietly. ‘Weather’s closing in again. Let’s head back.’

  He seemed reluctant to go. He sat on the ground, legs stretched out, arms behind him to support himself.

  ‘We got it wrong,’ he said, almost in tears. Siobhan was looking at him, knowing she needed to coax him back down the hill. He was wet and cold and losing it. She crouched in front of him.

  ‘I need you to be strong, Grant,’ she said, her hands on his knees. 'You go to pieces on me, and that’s it finished. We’re a team, remember?’

  ‘A team,’ he echoed. Siobhan was nodding.

  ‘So let’s act like a team and get our arses off this hill.’

  He was staring at her hands. He reached out with his own, wrapping them around hers. She started to rise, pulling him with her. ‘Come on, Grant.’ They were both up on their feet now, and his eyes weren’t moving from her.

  ‘Remember what you said?’ he asked. ‘When we were trying to get parked near Victoria Street?’

  ‘What?’

  You asked why I always had to play by the rules … ’

  ‘Grant … ’ She tried for a look that was sympathetic rather than pitying. ‘Let’s not spoil it,’ she said quietly, trying to slide her hands out from his grip.

  ‘Spoil what?’ he asked hollowly.

  ‘We’re a team,’ she repeated.

  ‘That’s it?’

  He was staring at her as she nodded. She kept nodding and he slowly released her hands. Siobhan turned to move away, start the descent. She hadn’t gone five paces when Grant flew past her, bounding down the slope like a man possessed. He lost his footing once or twice but bounced straight back up again.

  ‘Tell me those aren’t hailstones!’ he called out at one point. But they were: stinging Siobhan’s face as she tried to catch up. Then Grant caught his cagoule on the barbed wire as he hurdled the fence, ripping its seam. He was swearing and red-faced as he helped Siobhan over. They got into the car and just sat there for a full minute, getting their breath back. The windscreen started steaming up, so Siobhan slid her window down. The hail had stopped. The sun was coming out again.

  ‘Bloody Scottish weather,’ Grant spat. ‘Is it any wonder we’ve a chip on our shoulder?’

  ‘Have we? I hadn’t noticed.’

  He snorted, but smiled too. Siobhan looked at him, hoping it was going to be all right between them. The way he was acting, it was as if nothing had happened up there on the summit. She took off her Barbour and tossed it into the back. Grant slipped the cagoule over his head. There was steam rising from his T-shirt. From beneath the seat, Siobhan retrieved the laptop and plugged her mobile into it, booting the machine up. The mobile’s signal was weak, but it would do.

  ‘Tell him he’s a bastard,’ Grant said.

  ‘I’m sure he’d be thrilled to hear it.’ Siobhan started typing a message, Grant leaning over to watch.

  Just been up Hart Fell. No sign of next clue. Did I get it wrong?

  She pressed ‘send’ and waited, pouring herself a cup of tea. Grant was trying to prise his denims away from his skin. ‘Soon as we get moving, I’ll put the heater on.’ She nodded, offered him some more tea, which he took. ‘What time’s the meeting with the banker?’

  She checked her watch. ‘We’ve a couple of hours. Time enough to home and get changed.’

  Grant looked at the screen. ‘He’s not there, is he?’

  Siobhan shrugged, and Grant turned the Alfa’s ignition. They drove in silence, the weather clearing ahead of them. It soon became clear that the rain had been localised. By Innerleithen, the road was bone dry.

  ‘I wonder if we should have taken the A701,’ Grant mused. ‘Might have made for a shorter climb, the west side of the hill.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter now,’ Siobhan said. She could see that in his mind he was still on Hart Fell. The laptop suddenly announced that there was post. She clicked, but it was an invitation to visit a porn site. ‘That’s not the first of those I’ve had,’ she informed Grant.

  ‘Makes me wonder what you got up to with your computer.’

  ‘They pick names at random,’ he said, his neck reddening. ‘I think they have some kind of system that tells them when you’re online.’

  ‘I’ll believe you,’ she said.

  ‘It’s true!’ His voice was rising.

  ‘Okay, okay. I really do believe you.’

  ‘I’d never do that, Siobhan.’

  She nodded, but kept quiet. They had reached the outskirts of Edinburgh when the next message was announced. This time it was Quizmaster. Grant pulled up on to the verge and stopped the car.

  ‘What’s he saying?’

  ‘Take a look.’ Siobhan angled the laptop towards him. They were a team, after all …

  Hart Fell is all I needed. You didn’t need to climb it.

  ‘Bastard,’ Grant hissed.

  Siobhan typed her response. Did Flip know that? There was nothing for a couple of minutes, then: You’re two moves away from Hellbank. Clue follows in approximately ten minutes. You have twenty-four hours to solve it. Do you wish to continue the game?

  Siobhan looked at Grant. ‘Tell him yes,’ he said.

  ‘Not yet.’ When he looked at her, she held his gaze. ‘I think maybe he needs us as much as we need him.’

  ‘Can we risk that?’

  But she was already typing: Need to know—did Flip have help? Who else was playing?

  His response was immediate: Last time of asking. Do you wish to continue?

  ‘We don’t want to lose him,’ Grant warned.

  ‘He knew I’d climb that hill. Probably the way he knew Flip wouldn’t.’ Siobhan chewed her bottom lip. ‘I think we can push him a bit further.?
??

  ‘We’re two clues away from Hellbank. That’s as far as Flip got.’

  Siobhan nodded slowly, then began to type: Continue to next level, but please, just tell me if Flip had anyone helping her.

  Grant sat back and sucked in his breath. Nothing came back. Siobhan checked her watch. ‘He said ten minutes.’

  'You like to gamble, don’t you?’

  ‘What’s life without a bit of risk?’

  ‘A much pleasanter, less stressful experience.’

  She looked at him. ‘This from the boy racer.’

  He wiped the windscreen clear of condensation. ‘If Flip didn’t need to climb Hart Fell, I wonder if she needed to do any travelling at all. I mean, could she have solved the puzzle from her bedroom?’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning she wouldn’t have gone anywhere that would have got her into trouble.’

  Siobhan nodded. ‘Maybe the next clue will tell us.’

  ‘If there is a next clue.’

  'You gotta have faith,’ she sang.

  ‘That’s just what faith is to me: a song by George Michael.’

  The laptop told them there was a message. Grant leaned over again to read it.

  A corny beginning where the mason’s dream ended.

  While they were still taking it in, another message arrived: I don’t think Flipside had any help. Is anyone helping you, Siobhan?

  She typed ‘No’ and pressed ‘send’.

  ‘Why don’t you want him to know?’ Grant asked.

  ‘Because he might change the rules, or even take the huff. He says Flip was on her own, I want him to think the same about me.’ She glanced at him. ‘Is that a problem?’

  Grant thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘So what does the latest clue mean?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest. I don’t suppose you’re a Mason?’

  He shook his head again. ‘Never quite got round to joining. Any idea where we might find one?’

  Siobhan smiled. ‘In the Lothian and Borders Police? I don’t think we’ll have too much trouble …'

  The coffins had turned up at St Leonard’s, as had the autopsy notes. There was just the one small problem: the Falls coffin was now in the possession of Steve Holly. Bev Dodds had given it to him so it could be photographed. Rebus decided he’d have to visit Holly's office. He grabbed his jacket and walked across to the desk opposite, where Ellen Wylie was looking bored as Donald Devlin pored over the contents of a slim manila file.

  ‘I have to go out,’ he explained.

  ‘Lucky you. Need any company?’

  ‘Look after Professor Devlin. I won’t be long.

  Devlin looked up. ‘And where are your peregrinations taking you?’

  ‘There’s a reporter I need to talk to.’

  ‘Ah, our much-derided fourth estate.’

  The way Devlin talked, it was getting on Rebus’s nerves. And he wasn’t alone, if Wylie’s look was anything to go by. She always sat with her chair as far from the Professor as possible, on opposite sides of the desk if she could manage it.

  ‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ he tried to reassure her, but as he walked away he knew her eyes were following him all the way to the door.

  Another thing about Devlin: he was almost too keen. Being useful again had taken years off him. He relished the autopsy reports, reciting passages aloud, and whenever Rebus was busy or trying to concentrate, you could be sure Devlin had some question to ask. Not for the first time, Rebus cursed Gates and Curt. Wylie herself had summed it up by way of a question to Rebus: ‘Remind me,’ she’d asked, ‘is he helping us or are we helping him? I mean, if I’d wanted to be a care assistant, I’d have applied to an old folk’s home … ’

  In his car, Rebus tried not to count the number of pubs he passed on his route into town.

  The Glasgow tabloid had its office on the top floor of a Queen Street conversion a few doors along from the BBC. Rebus chanced his luck, parked on a single yellow line outside. The main door was wedged open, so he climbed the three flights and pulled open a glass-panelled door leading to a cramped reception area where a woman working a switchboard smiled at him as she answered the latest call.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s out for the day. Do you have his mobile number?’ Her short blonde hair was tucked behind both ears. She wore a black headset consisting of earpiece and microphone. ‘Thank you,’ she said, terminating the call, only to press a button to take another. She didn’t look at Rebus, but held up a finger telling him he hadn’t been forgotten. He looked around for somewhere to sit, but there were no chairs, just an exhausted-looking cheese plant in a pot it was fast outgrowing.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s out for the day,’ she told the new caller. ‘Do you have his mobile number?’ She gave this number, then terminated the call.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ she told Rebus.

  ‘That’s okay. I’m here to see Steve Holly, but I have the feeling I know what you’re going to say.’

  ‘He’s out for the day, I’m afraid.’

  Rebus nodded.

  ‘Do you have his—’

  ‘I do, yes.’

  ‘Was he expecting you?’

  ‘I don’t. know. I’m here to pick up the doll, if he’s finished with it.’

  ‘Ooh, that thing.’ She made a show of shivering. ‘He left it on my chair this morning. Steve’s idea of a laugh.’

  ‘The hours must fly.’

  She smiled again, enjoying this little conspiracy against her colleague. ‘I think it’s in his cubicle.’

  Rebus nodded. ‘Photos all done?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Then maybe I could … ?’ He pointed a thumb towards where he guessed Holly’s cubicle might be.

  ‘Don’t see why not.’ The switchboard was sounding again.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it then,’ Rebus said, turning round as if he knew exactly where he was going.

  It was easy enough. There were only four ‘cubicles’: desks separated by free-standing partition walls. No one was working in any of them. The small coffin was sitting next to Holly’s keyboard, a couple of test Polaroids lying on top. Rebus congratulated himself: this was best-case-scenario stuff. If Holly had been here, there’d have been questions to parry, maybe a bit of grief. He took the opportunity to give the work-space a once-over. Phone numbers and news clippings pinned to the walls, a two-inch-high Scooby Doo stuck to the top of the monitor. A Simpsons desk calendar, covered with doodles on a page three weeks out of date. A memo recorder, its battery compartment open and empty. There was a newspaper headline taped to the side of the monitor: ‘Super Cally Go Ballistic, Celtic Are Atrocious’. Rebus had a little smile: it was a modern classic, referred to a football match. Maybe Holly was a Rangers fan, maybe he just appreciated a joke. As he was about to leave, he noticed Jean’s name and phone number on the wall near the desk. He tore it down and pocketed it, then saw other numbers beneath … his own, plus Gill Templer’s. Beneath these were other names: Bill Pryde, Siobhan Clarke, Ellen Wylie. The reporter had home numbers for Templer and Clarke. Rebus couldn’t know if Holly had copies, but he decided to take the lot with him.

  Outside, he tried Siobhan’s mobile, but got a recording saying his call couldn’t be connected. There was a ticket on his car, no sign of the warden. They were known around town as ‘Blue Meanies’ because of their uniform. Rebus, probably the only person who’d seen Yellow Submarine in the cinema without benefit of drugs, appreciated the name, but cursed the ticket anyway, stuffing it in his glove compartment. He smoked a cigarette on the crawl back to St Leonard’s. So many of the streets now, you couldn’t go the way you wanted. Unable to take a left on to Princes Street, and with traffic stalled at Waverley Bridge due to roadworks, he ended up taking The Mound, turning off down Market Street. He had Janis Joplin on the stereo, Buried Alive in the Blues. Had to be better than a living death on Edinburgh’s roads.

  Back at the office, Ellen Wylie looked like she could sing some blues of
her own.

  ‘Fancy a little trip?’ Rebus asked.

  She perked up. ‘Where?’

  ‘Professor Devlin, you’re invited too.’

  ‘Sounds most intriguing.’ He wasn’t wearing a cardigan today, but a V-neck jumper, sagging beneath the arms but too short at the back. ‘Would this be some sort of mystery tour?’

  ‘Not exactly. We’re visiting a funeral parlour.’

  Wylie stared at him. 'You’ve got to be joking.’

  But Rebus shook his head, pointing towards the coffins arranged on his desk. ‘If you want an expert opinion,’ he said, ‘you need to ask an expert.’

  ‘Self-evidently,’ Devlin agreed.

  The undertaker’s was a short walk from St Leonard’s. Last time Rebus had been in a funeral parlour was when his father had died. He’d walked forward, touched the old man’s forehead, the way his father had taught him when his mother had died: if you touch them, Johnny, you’ll never need fear the dead. Somewhere in the city, Conor Leary was settling into his own box. Death and taxes: shared by everyone. But Rebus had known some criminals who’d never paid a bawbee’s tax in their life. It didn’t matter: when the time was right, their box was still waiting.

  Jean Burchill was already there. She rose from the chair in the reception area, as if glad of some company. The mood was sombre, despite the sprays of fresh-cut flowers. Idly, Rebus wondered if they got a discount from whoever did their wreaths. The walls were wood-panelled, and there was a faint smell of furniture polish. The brass doorhandles gleamed. Underfoot, the floor was tiled with marble, black and white squares like a chessboard. Rebus made the introductions. While shaking Jean’s hand, Devlin asked, ‘And what is it exactly that you curate?’

  ‘Nineteenth-century,’ she explained. ‘Belief systems, social concerns …'

  ‘Ms Burchill is helping us form a historical perspective,’ Rebus said.

  ‘I’m not sure I understand.’ Devlin looked to her for help.

  ‘I put together the display of the Arthur’s Seat coffins.’

  Devlin’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Oh, but how fascinating! And there may be some correlation with the current spate?’

  ‘I’m not sure you could call it a “spate”,’ Ellen Wylie argued. ‘Five coffins over a thirty-year period.’